I don’t want to write no more

I’m through writing. I’m sick of it.

It makes me feel awful and so many find fault and misinterpret.

I started with story telling, but moved on to free verse.

The farther I dug down to the pit of my stomach,

The darker the result, alienating some,

Causing others to suspect my sanity,

Murmuring, murmuring.

I spent hours, days, weeks not searching,

But being open.

And then, having discovered things,

I shared in an open and honest fashion

And stirred up a great dust storm,

A wasp’s nest.

I erred as I drove forward,

Carelessly searching to test my new insights.

You need to know that I don’t do well in personal confrontation.

I can stand up for myself in calm logical rationalization ,but

When emotions raise the ante,

I tend to fold.

I felt so sure,

And now it I’m sick of it.

I am sick of the hurt it has brought others near and dear.

Should I return to the man I thought I was supposed to be?

Should I march on ignoring the fallout and censorship?


What Would Hemingway do?

– Small Town Boy


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